


Hunger & Release

by Twisted_Mind



Category: Teen Wolf (TV)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Biting, Blow Jobs, Bondage, Dom/sub Undertones, Frottage, Getting Together, Hand Jobs, Intercrural Sex, M/M, Marking, POV Multiple, Poly-V, Polyamory, Recreational Drug Use, Rough Sex, Time Skips, Voyeurism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-07-21
Updated: 2017-07-21
Packaged: 2018-12-04 19:58:45
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,265
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11562276
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Twisted_Mind/pseuds/Twisted_Mind
Summary: “A word, before we begin,” Peter murmurs. He nods. “You’re here to watch, Christopher, not judge. If you want to understand, you’ll need to hold off on questions until later. It’s also in your best interests to remember that what you’re about to see has nothing to do with you.”





	Hunger & Release

**Author's Note:**

> Good lord. Okay. So. Here, have another emotionally messy thing that was supposed to be short and instead ran me ragged for six months. Big thanks on this one to BelleAmante and red_crate, as well as the people in TWT who cheered this on and listened to me rant my face off trying to get the boys to listen. 
> 
> A quick note--this fic is poly-V, meaning Stiles is with Peter, and he's with Chris, but the three of them are not a triad, and there isn't any Chris/Peter going on. They all have a rather emotional scene together, which is why that's been tagged for, but it's not fair to let you go in thinking this is Stetopher in the traditional sense. 
> 
> That being said . . . Happy Friday, everyone!

 

 

The first time they acted on what they’d been dancing around since the parking garage, Stiles felt three undeniable truths settle in his bones: that this was going to be messy as hell, that it was inevitable, and that it was going to happen again. He’d known from the first time Peter touched him—really touched him, with intent to claim—that he wouldn’t be able to give this up, not now that he knew what it was like.

The two of them had been trying to come down off an amphetamine-fuelled research binge after finding the answer. While Stiles had been energetic to the point of jittery, Peter had been tightly-coiled, focussed. Hungry.

Stiles had headed to the bathroom when his jitters took a distinctly embarrassing turn. He splashed cold water on his face, and then leaned over the sink, head hanging to avoid his reflection. It was why he was startled when Peter pressed up against his back.

He looked up, watching Peter watch him as hands slid round his waist, one dragging up to cup his throat delicately, and the other tracing the zip of his jeans. Peter waited like that, staring into his eyes in the mirror, not speaking but asking anyhow. Stiles let his eyes close in answer.

Peter unzipped his jeans and hauled them down his legs before leaning against his back, pushing until he had no choice but to catch himself on the sink. He fought not to quiver when he heard Peter unzipping, and moaned at the feel of skin on skin. He’d deny that the sound he made when Peter spun him around and lifted him onto the sink was a whine.

But he couldn’t say what noises he made when Peter started mouthing at his thighs, sucking and nipping until his skin was red-purple and damp. He let Peter haul him around until he was bent over the sink again, Peter’s hands pushing his legs together to rut between them. Catching on, he pressed them shut until his muscles ached, groaning at the heat and drag of soft skin against his inner thighs.

It only got better when Peter wrapped a hand around his cock, squeezing in counterpoint to the rhythm of his hips. It didn’t take long before Stiles was covered in their come, panting and feeling pleasantly tingly. He didn’t feel as self-conscious as he thought he would, using a handful of tissue to wipe the worst of the mess off his skin while Peter watched, eyes heavy-lidded.

He leaned in slowly, waiting to be pushed back, to press a gentle kiss to Peter’s mouth. Their first. Peter returned it, sucking his bottom lip hungrily. When it broke, Peter stroked a thumb over his throat before letting him slip out of the apartment without a word.

He didn’t shower until the next morning, secretly enjoying that he smelled like Peter.

 

***

 

The first time the Stilinski kid bumps into him at the coffee shop and asks to join him, he’s dumb enough to think it was an accident. Turns out the Sheriff’s kid is quite the little stalker when he puts his mind to it, but considering that he mostly just wants to pick Chris’s brain about supernatural lore and bemoan the teenage stupidity of his packmates, there’s no harm in it.

It isn’t until meeting for coffee once a week is joined by frequent text messaging that he starts to wonder if maybe the kid is after something else. And, even if he’s not, the question of why he’s seeing the potential for something else, something more, with someone younger than his daughter, lingers.

He starts avoiding the Sheriff more than usual.

 

***

 

He’s sitting on the roof, slowly working his way through the stash of confiscated pot he smuggled out of the evidence locker when Peter finds him. It’s been a long night full of patrols and arguing that got him nowhere. He doesn’t say anything, doesn’t even acknowledge Peter is there, because if he starts talking, he won’t stop, and it’ll be a torrent of frustration and anger and bad ideas. Peter just plucks the joint from his fingers and takes a drag before handing it back. They go on like that until the joint’s gone. It was the second, maybe third he’s had, and he fumbles for the papers to roll another, but Peter beats him to it.

He watches, mesmerized, as Peter quickly and neatly rolls another one. He doesn’t think his fascination is just because he’s stoned. Peter’s always had hands worth looking at—capable and elegant, strong. He keeps watching at Peter starts smoking the new joint, and about halfway through he realizes that Peter’s not sharing.

Which is kinda rude. Even if he does have a ways to go before he’s anywhere near the level of stoned that Stiles is right now. So he climbs into Peter’s lap, sealing his lips over Peter’s before the werewolf blows out another stream of smoke. He shotguns the rest of the joint. Peter doesn’t seem to mind, if the way he’s gripping Stiles’s hip with his free hand is any indicator.

After, Stiles chases the last of the smoke inside Peter’s mouth. Everything is soft, fuzzy, and kissing Peter like they have all the time in the world seems like the best idea he’s ever had. Peter wraps an arm around his waist, the other tangling in his hair, kissing back just as languidly.

He doesn’t know how long they make out like that, but when he finally pulls away, resting his face against the side of Peter’s head, his lips hurt and his face is raw from stubble-burn. Peter doesn’t have that problem, and starts mouthing and nibbling at his neck. He groans, tipping his head back and letting Peter go to town. It feels fantastic, even if it’s making the situation in his jeans a little more pressing than before.

One particularly sharp nip has his hips jerking, and then Peter’s moving, and when everything settles down he’s flat on his back with Peter on top of him, cradled between his legs. It’s good, it’s so good, and he rolls his hips up, seeking friction. Peter pushes down, giving him something to grind against, and goes back to sucking and biting at his neck and collarbones. Everything is hazy and sweet long before he comes.

 

***

 

He likes being around Chris, he realizes. He really likes that they can talk about anything and nothing, that Chris has the patience for him to actually get to the point when he starts to ramble. And god, but he loves the way they debate hunter ideology. They play Devil’s Advocate, sometimes, and he didn’t think Chris would understand werewolves well enough to understand their concerns over the hunting community’s oversight, but he _does_ and it’s glorious.

But he thinks that nothing will ever beat the day he asked Chris to teach him the hunter’s version of hand-to-hand. He’s so sick of feeling helpless, of being left behind, of that look in people’s eyes when they’re trying to figure out if he’s a liability or an asset. He doesn’t even have to explain all of that before Chris is saying yes.

 

***

 

The day Stiles walks into a pack meeting smelling like Argent is the day it nearly goes to shit, because if there’s one thing Peter can’t stand, it’s the Argents.

He’s up and across the room, pinning the boy he’s started to think of as _his_ to the wall before the others have a fucking clue what’s going on. “Why do you smell like him?”

He doesn’t elaborate on which “him” he’s referring to. He doesn’t need to. Stiles is more than smart enough to know what he’s asking.   “What does it matter?”

He can’t hold in the growl at the thought of an Argent taking something _else_ away from him. “Does he know you’re mine?”

He chooses to ignore the ripple that goes through the room at that, because while these children might think their opinion matters, the only one that actually does belongs to the person he’s determined not to lose.

Stiles looks at him, comprehension dawning just as quickly as he knew it would. The boy cups a gentle hand round the back of his neck, and he doesn’t want to admit that it’s soothing, that he wants it to stay there, but of course the little brat knows. “He doesn’t, but that doesn’t make it any less true. Doesn’t mean he gets to take you away from me.”

And oh, the little minx. He really should mind a lot more than he does that Stiles has claimed him, but right now all he can feel is pleasure and relief that he gets to keep this, them. _Stiles_.

So of course Derek has to ruin the moment. “Peter, let the kid go, and so help me, Stiles, if you don’t explain why it sounds like you’re with _him_ of all people, I will throttle you myself.”

He lets go reluctantly, not wanting his darling nephew to decide to use him as a stress ball, but Stiles doesn’t let him retreat. Instead, the brat presses closer, sliding their cheeks together to address Derek from over Peter’s shoulder. “So what if I am?”

He can’t see Derek’s face, but he can feel the suppressed laughter where Stiles is tucked against him. It’s deeply satisfying. He expects Derek to start growling, but the next voice to speak is Erica’s.

“I want all the details. All of them!”

“That’s nice,” Stiles replies, his voice hard and flat, and Peter’s never been prouder of him. Then Lydia chimes in.

“I want to know what was running through that warped little brain of yours when you decided to cozy up to Peter, of all people. Did you bother to think about how this would affect the rest of us? Have you forgotten what he’s done?”

At that, Stiles does move away from him, and if he couldn’t smell the fury rising under the boy’s skin, he’d be upset about it. As it is, he’s perfectly content to watch the fireworks.

“Gee, Lydia, I forgot that I was carrying your grudge along with your Macy’s bags. How terrible of me to not ask your permission before letting someone have sex with me. I should be slapped in handcuffs right now.”

He might still be harbouring some guilt over the way he used the young banshee, but that doesn’t mean he won’t treasure the gobsmacked expression on her face until the day he dies. She seems to think that she has the right to run roughshod over everyone, while nurturing hatred for the one person who dared treat her as if she were disposable. As far as he’s concerned, this is poetic justice.

“I mean, yeah, I’m aware of what he’s done. I can’t exactly forget it, given that my life is now a horror show. And as for everyone else? Nice try, but there isn’t a single person in this room right now that hasn’t done something stupid without thinking and landed me in a world of shit as a result.”

Derek opens his mouth, but Stiles cuts him off. “Nope, we’re done here. I’m not staying for the Inquisition, not when all your choices about who to fuck have been historically worse than mine.”

He lets Stiles drag him out of the loft in the stunned silence that follows. He makes sure to give a little wave with his other hand.

Once they’re outside, he stops, forcing Stiles to stop too. “What is he to you, Stiles? And what are you to him?”

The boy who really isn’t a boy at all sighs, letting Peter go to pick at his cuticles. “Dunno yet. We’re feeling it out.”

That’s not a satisfactory answer, but it is an honest one, at least. There are so many more questions he wants to ask, but he knows that’s not what Stiles needs. Not right now. If it’s important, he’ll find out. He already knows the most important thing anyway—that Argent won’t, can’t, take this from him. He nods to the Jeep. “Drive us to my place.”

The stinging scent of anxiety starts to recede then, though the anger the others lit still burns under Stiles’s skin. “Yeah?”

He nods. “You can ride me until you’ve worn yourself out, or you come untouched, whichever comes first.”

His boy grins. “Sold.”

 

***

 

Chris hates how much he loves training Stiles. The kid is almost painfully eager to learn, and he learns _fast_. He’s the best kind of student a teacher could ask for—as long as the teacher is willing to put up with endless questions and a flow of intuitive ideas that might cause a less secure man to feel stupid.

But the best part, hands down, is being able to touch him. The kid learns better that way, and it lets Chris learn more about that lithe body than he thinks he’s comfortable knowing. He could have lived without knowing that the kid’s hands are big enough to cup his asscheek, or how sensitive Stiles’s inner thighs are, or the way losing a sparring match and winding up pinned underneath him makes the boy chub up in his workout pants. (He never acknowledges it, but how could he not know? The feeling of a hard cock against his hip is unmistakable, and the way Stiles flushes is an even bigger giveaway.)

But the very worst part about knowing all of it is the way it makes him _want_.

 

***

 

It’s a day where the ghosts of the past are hovering a little too close for comfort, and Derek’s casual dismissal of what _he_ might’ve lost in the fire is the last straw.

He may not be the raging lunatic that he was as Alpha, but he didn’t come back from the dead entirely sane, either. The rage burning under his skin, urging him to rip and tear and scream and destroy something, attests to that. He has to leave before that something winds up being his nephew.

He texts Stiles. Tells his boy he’s coming, and to prep himself. He needs to lose himself for a while, and a good fuck seems preferable to a gruesome murder.

He forces himself to walk, not run, there. It pays off, because Stiles has three fingers three-knuckles deep in himself when Peter arrives, and that means he can bend his boy over the bed and push inside without having to wait. He grips too hard and snaps his hips without caring about rhythm and doesn’t even try to stop the growls and snarls from ripping up and out his throat.

Stiles lets him take everything he needs, pushing back into it and making perfect little prey-noises, and he drops butterfly kisses across the boy’s shoulders after. He pants against Stiles’s hairline, and his boy lets him despite the fact that only one of them has come, and he feels the last of his rage go quiet—for now—with the scent of _Stiles_ and come and lube and sweat and want filling his nose.

He’s gentle, when he pulls out. Ignores Stiles insisting that he’s fine, and checks to make sure the only damage left behind is the matching bouquets of bruises blooming red-violet at the boy’s hips. Then, and only then, does he draw Stiles’s cock into his mouth.

The blowjob is sweet—all soft-wet heat and suction and massaging tongue as he bobs steadily. It’s not quite an apology, because Stiles wouldn’t accept one and he couldn’t truthfully say he regrets any of this, but it feels a little bit like one all the same. Stiles drags him up for a kiss after coming down his throat, and he doesn’t know how he managed to get this—he certainly didn’t _earn_ it—but he’ll fight as hard as he has to in order to keep it.

 

***

 

He doesn’t know when, exactly, watching movies together became a normal thing for them to do. He doesn’t know when watching movies on his own couch became abnormal, but he suspects it was around the time his family moved to Beacon Hills and his daughter started dating a werewolf. That seems like a good benchmark for when normalcy went out the fucking window.

But this, with Stiles? It’s . . . odd, in a way he can’t quite put his finger on. Maybe it’s because the kid is spending so much time with him lately. Maybe it’s the way all that free time implies he doesn’t have anyone else to spend it with.

More likely, it’s the way the kid invades his personal space, throwing those gangly legs over his lap, knocking their shoulders together, or full-on slumping against him when a bit of unexpected humour makes him laugh so hard he tips. It’s the way that smart mouth always has an interesting perspective or random bit of trivia or behind-the-scenes knowledge for everything they end up watching, changing the way he experiences the movie, even if he’s seen it damn near a hundred times.

It’s a random Saturday afternoon, and they’re watching another movie. Something from the MCU, because Stiles keeps stopping to explain tie-ins and Easter eggs. Film’s paused because there’s no telling how long Stiles will ramble on for, but that’s alright. He can feel his mouth quirking in a lopsided smile as a fondness so intense it’s just about unbearable rockets through him.

The kid turns in time to see it. And, see, the problem is that Stiles has always been too perceptive for his own good. His expression morphs as he goes quiet, and Chris feels the beginning of something like panic. Stiles moves toward him slowly, like he might spook, and the hand at his shoulder is warm and gentle, and then there are lips brushing over his. It’s over before he can process it. Before he can respond.

The kid pulls away, watching him carefully, but the hand at his shoulder stays. He opens his mouth to say something, and closes it again. It takes a few tries before he can croak out, “Are you sure?” Because, god help him, but he is.

Stiles nods, his face soft. “I’m sure, Chris.”

He _wants_ , but—“I’m not your first, right?”

The grin he gets is sly. “Not by a long shot, old man.”

And that, that’s all the permission he can stand to ask for, so he cups the back of the kid’s neck and pulls him into another kiss. It’s still gentle, but it’s hungry. It’s so, so hungry, because how could it not be? Stiles responds beautifully, squirming closer and inching a hand up his shirt, thumb feathering back and forth over skin, and he thinks that he’s never had anything sweeter than this.

They need to do a lot of talking, about boundaries and expectations and whether or not he can expect the Sheriff to shoot him on principle, about what to tell Allison, about what this is and especially what it isn’t, but for now, he’s going to see how many noises he can coax out of Stiles.

 

***

 

He wonders if Peter realizes he knows what the werewolf is doing. Peter is usually the one not to underestimate him, but, well. It’s also possible Peter isn’t consciously aware he’s doing it. Unlikely, but possible.

And, mostly, he doesn’t mind. Peter’s always been possessive, and Stiles likes the splotchy bruises, the imprints of teeth that he can press down on later and shiver, remembering Peter putting them there. But ever since he and Chris started building something, something he’s hesitant to name in case he jinxes it, Peter’s gotten even more possessive.

It’s not that he minds Peter loaning him shirts or the scenting or the hickeys—because he could wax poetic about how much he _does not mind_ the hickeys—it’s that he’s worried about what happens when Chris inevitably finds out. Everyone thinks what he has with Peter is insane. Chris isn’t likely to think much differently.

But, most importantly, he’s not giving Peter up. He won’t. He can’t. No matter what it might cost him.

 

***

 

He’s over at the Sheriff’s house. It was supposed to be because the Sheriff is pulling a night shift and neither he nor Stiles wants the kid alone in the house given the way the town’s gone to chaos this week. Instead, it somehow becomes about making out on the couch.

Oh, he’s not complaining. Not even a little bit. He’s so skin-hungry for this boy it’s bordering on obsession.

It’s why he slides his hands under the loose shirts, why he skates his palms over everything he can reach—making sure to rub at sensitive nipples in a way that makes Stiles whine and rut against him. Kid’s almost as desperate for it as he is, so there’s no protest when he pushes the flannel down Stiles’s arms, or when he starts rolling the tee shirt off soon after. Stiles goes with the movement, but he’s quiet.

Once he’s shirtless, Chris can see why.

Stiles’s shoulders and chest are splotched with the shape of a hungry mouth. Some of the bruises have deep purple teethmarks outlining them. He raises a hand, but can’t quite bring himself to touch. He’s not sure he wants to.

“I don’t understand.” And he doesn’t, not really. He doesn’t know who put those bruises there, who marked up Stiles like they owned him. Doesn’t know if they actually do.

Stiles doesn’t move away, but he’s distant, face full of shadows. “Neither do I.”

“Who?”

“Peter.”

He doesn’t know what expression comes over his face then—he’s too busy trying to contain the explosion in his chest—but Stiles’s turns pleading. “Chris, please. It’s not—we’re so new. We haven’t even talked about what we _are_ , what lines we can’t cross.”

It’s true, but this still feels like a slap in the face. “When were you going to tell me?”

Stiles slides out of his lap. “I don’t know. Soon?”

“Now’s as good a time as any.” It comes out sharper than he means it to.

The kid starts to pace, fingertips scrubbing over his scalp. “I mean, yes, I should have told you before you saw. But, just. How do you explain something you have no words for?”

“I’m not following. Are you or aren’t you dating Peter?” He doesn’t say _behind my back_ , because he might just as easily be the piece on the side.

“No?”

He loses his patience. “Goddamnit, kid, would you just give me a straight answer?”

“I would, but I don’t have one!”

He looks at this boy, at Stiles, and all he can see is someone stuck in a lie. Kid’s never at a loss for words, and there isn’t any other explanation that makes sense. “I’m gonna go. I’ll call one of the others to come stay with you.”

Stiles stumbles and nearly faceplants to get between him and the door. “Don’t go. Please, Chris.”

He can’t look into those big Bambi eyes without wanting to cave even when they aren’t shiny with the threat of tears. He pinches the bridge of his nose. “You gotta give me something, here, Stiles. I need answers.”

“I swear to god I wanna give them to you, but I just,” he stops, suddenly. Goes still. His eyes look too big for his face when he speaks. “Have you ever felt something that was so big, so messy and complicated and tangled up, that you don’t have words for it?”

He has. Stiles knows he has. He had Kate for a sister, Gerard for a father. He nods.

Stiles heaves in an unsteady breath. “Let me—let me make a phone call, okay? I have an idea.”

He nods again, because what else can he do? He doesn’t follow when the kid walks to another room. It’s obvious he’s calling Peter. When he comes back, he’s wringing his hands. “We’re gonna go over to Peter’s place. I can’t—I can’t explain, but. Maybe I can show you?”

He nods, and insists on driving. Stiles lets him. He doesn’t talk on the way over, too wrapped up in what all of this means. Peter’s gonna let him—an Argent—into his home? That’s a big deal, and he knows it. The fact that Peter’s willing to do that for Stiles means that—whatever they have—is deep. It’s important to them both.

He’s not sure he wants to know what it is, but he can’t live in denial. Maybe once, but not anymore. Besides that, Stiles seems desperate to hold onto him, and that gives him hope. Stiles isn’t the kind of person to fight for something that doesn’t matter to him.

It’s one reason of many he developed feelings for the kid, despite his better judgement.

When they get to Peter’s apartment complex—Stiles giving quiet directions, but otherwise not speaking—he follows the kid up to the second floor. He pretends not to see the way Stiles’s hand is shaking as he knocks.

When Peter opens the door, he and Stiles just . . . look at each other. They don’t speak. After a long moment, Peter nods slowly, and the tension just whooshes out of Stiles. Peter jerks his head behind him, towards something in the apartment, and Stiles slips inside and disappears in that direction without a word, brushing against Peter as he does.

He watches and wonders what’s going on. Before he can figure out how to ask, Peter opens the door and steps to the side, a clear invitation. He enters carefully.

“A word, before we begin,” Peter murmurs. He nods. “You’re here to watch, Christopher, not judge. If you want to understand, you’ll need to hold off on questions until later. It’s also in your best interests to remember that what you’re about to see has nothing to do with you.” And then Peter walks away.

Chris stands there for a minute, more off-balance than he’s been in years. He’s not sure what all of that is supposed to mean. In the end, he toes off his shoes, hangs up his jacket in Peter’s hall closet, and follows Stiles and Peter down the hallway.

He finds them in what can only be Peter’s bedroom. There’s a chair by the door, and he assumes it’s for him, so he sits. Peter nods at him, and then turns his attention back to Stiles.

Stiles takes a swing at Peter. Chris chokes on air at that, because—for all that Stiles is morbidly cavalier about killing and torture—the kid’s never gotten aggressive, let alone _violent_ with anyone he cares about. And, while you don’t have to care about the person you’re sleeping with, Chris is fairly confident that what he and Peter are up to isn’t hate-fucking.

But then, he clearly doesn’t know as much as he thought he did, so.

Peter dodges that first punch, of course. The second, he catches to press a mocking kiss to the inside of Stiles’s wrist. That seems to rile Stiles further, and he starts going all-out in a way Chris really didn’t know him capable of. The odd thing is that Peter never retaliates, doesn’t go for any of the obvious—or even subtle—takedowns. His touches all play at gentleness, his lips curved up in something that isn’t his trademark smirk, but isn’t a smile, either.

It takes about half an hour for Stiles to wear himself out, for his breaths to turn laboured and sweat to dampen the hair at his temples. That’s when Peter moves—hauling Stiles against his chest, and when he wraps a clawless hand around Stiles’s throat, all the fight bleeds out of the kid. He’s shaking again, but not with tension. This is the trembling of someone on the verge of collapse.

Peter manoeuvres him onto the bed before stripping him slowly. Stiles rallies when he’s down to nothing but his jeans, his shirts, shoes and socks already gone. Peter nips that in the bud, tracing a single claw deliberately over the kid’s Adam’s apple, and Stiles goes still, but he’s tense again.

Peter distracts him, straddling the narrow waist to kiss Stiles, but Chris can see his hand creeping off to the night table, and watches it return with a short length of rope. Before he can call out a warning, Stiles is tied to Peter’s headboard. The kid’s struggling, and Chris is halfway out of the chair when Peter tosses another length of rope—longer than the first—onto the bed with a challenging look. Chris doesn’t know what it means, but Stiles obviously does, because he stares at it for what feels like a long time before squeezing his eyes shut and shaking his head.

Peter taps his knee, and Stiles lets them fall open. He seems reluctant, but Peter just sits between them and pets at his calves and thighs before slicking his fingers with lube. When he starts fingering the kid, it’s obvious he’s done it before. He plays Stiles body like a master, and Chris doesn’t need a werewolf’s nose to know that the tears leaking from the corners of the kid’s eyes aren’t from pain or overstimulation.

All the sharp emotional turns are giving him whiplash. Stiles had gone from frustrated to angry to vulnerable to needy in a way Chris has never seen from him. And Peter . . . seems to understand it, riding and negotiating the sudden turns Chris would never see coming.

It hits him, then, that what he’s seeing is Stiles at his most raw.

And, watching the way Peter’s hips are rolling in more of a dirty grind than the expected thrust, seeing the way Stiles breaks open under that tenderness in the wake of his own frustration and incoherent need, he understands why Stiles couldn’t tell him what he and Peter are. The kid probably doesn’t realize that Peter’s his release valve, because who would associate _Peter Hale_ with absolution?

He does wonder, though, why Peter, of all people. It isn’t until after Stiles has sobbed out his orgasm, coming untouched, until after Peter’s untied him and soothed him and let him cry, that Chris asks, “It always like this?”

Peter’s face is calculating. “Just when he needs it to be.”

_Release valve_ , he thinks again. Different kinds of pressure mean different kinds of release. “What about when he doesn’t?”

Peter raises an eyebrow. “Then it isn’t.”

Chris wonders, then, if it goes both ways. He probably shouldn’t ask, but—“It ever about what you need?”

Peter dips his head to look at Stiles, asleep in his arms. It hides his expression. “Every time.”

Chris thinks he understands why these two are drawn together like magnets. Why—even though they have no trouble bantering back and forth as naturally as most people breathe—they didn’t talk tonight. The two of them—disturbing as it is for him to think—are cut from the same grief-woven cloth. They don’t speak because they don’t need to. It’s an understanding that surpasses language.

It’s one he doesn’t have with Stiles. But he thinks that might be okay. “Can you handle sharing him?”

Peter’s eyes glint in the dark. “I suppose I’ll have to, since I’m not about to give him up.”

They all have some talking to do, but Chris can agree with Peter about that, so he nods. They’ll figure it out. Once Stiles is awake and clear-headed and steady-handed, but for now, they let him sleep.

 

**Author's Note:**

> . . . Four WIPs down, several more to go, LoL. But! Since some of them have been completed and just need to be polished for posting, you can safely expect to show up every Friday like clockwork for at least another month.


End file.
